The Enigmatic Man
by DarkAngel942
Summary: Men are like buses. You wait an age, and two come along at once. Bethany Hopkins, a shy Analyst in Molly's lab, is embroiled in the complicated life of the emotionally-detached Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock/OC Romance, third category is Suspense.
1. Molly is Sherlocked

**So this is my first stab at a Sherlock FanFic, so go nice please!**

I'm sitting here, just waiting for this molecule of mine to assert itself. There's a needle clutched in my hand, a few drops of water escaping the tip, and I'm waiting for this damn molecule to mix with the water so that I can cover it, readying it to be stored it for twelve hours, and go get my lunch. I'm famished.

The only other attendant in the room is Molly Hooper, a mousy and skinny girl who's lifting a Petri dish to a high shelf. I'd never make that shelf. I'm even smaller than her. However, I'm used to it. I'm always smaller than other girls, with their tanned legs 6ft in height and gorgeous shoes, I'm like a minuscule doll. My white-blond hair reaches past my shoulders in very soft ways, a long side-fringe on one side of my face accompanying it, making me look like a fairy.

It's not that I'm overly-skinny, or have absolutely no curves. I have curves in all the right places for a woman of twenty-four, but I just hate being so _petite _and youthful. It's infuriating working in a lab and having to stretch up to reach a shelf, like Molly was currently doing.

So, naturally, men tend not to notice me. I slip into the sidelines, usually accompanied by Molly, and we get on with our work without trying to look sexy to our male colleagues.

Except for today, Molly is making more of an effort for work than she usually would. A new lipstick I haven't seen before is on her lips, a warm pink, and if I'm not mistaken, blusher on her cheeks.

I frown a little while I wait for this needle to stop spilling water. I think carefully before I speak – I'm never usually in this particular lab, and so don't want to offend her. My shy personality usually prevents this from happening. I'm like a sixteen-year-old girl.

"You look different today, Molly."

A little stunned that I spoke, her back, which is facing me as she files away a report, jerks slightly and she turns to me. Her brown eyes blink, with a small smile on her face at my noticing.

"Yes, new make-up. I thought I'd try something out," she fingers her ponytail, hardly meeting my eyes, and the blush on her cheeks deepen.

"It looks nice," I say, smiling.

Before she could say thank you, a man barged into the room, whipping off a black scarf with long fingers. Shocked, I blinked, looking like a doe that's been caught in the headlights, and my mouth opened slightly. I'd never seen this man before. Surely he didn't work within the department?

He has curly black hair, dropping slightly onto his forehead, and impossibly-high cheekbones. The suit he's wearing is perfectly black, a white shirt underneath, and he throws his black trench coat on a hook next to the door. Before I can blink again, he's shouting orders to both Molly and another man who's walked in behind him. A little more... average..., this man has brown hair, a befuddled expression, and a small limp in his leg.

I don't... erm, quite know what to do with myself. They appear not to have noticed my presence – Molly hasn't seen my shock, and she doesn't seem at all alarmed by this tall man who's currently picking up a microscope, gesturing wildly, and rambling about a "curious case of a missing pair of boxer shorts". Molly has scampered out the door.

When the two men are muttering to each other, the brown-haired one's back facing me, blocking out the high-cheekboned man, I look back down at my work and get focused on it again. The molecule has separated itself from the water, and I give out a small sigh. No lunch for me for another ten or fifteen minutes, then.

I begin to start the process again, reaching for chemicals to mix in a freshly-cleaned beaker, and simultaneously scribble down the failure of my latest experiment and the amounts and concentrations of the chemicals I used.

"O-o- oh, this is Bethany. She's using the lab for a few weeks, bad case of electrical cut in hers from a guy's encounter with a microwave," Molly nervously giggles at the end. Well, I've obviously solved the case of why she has new make-up.

But nevertheless, I didn't notice her entering the room again, and I looked up to find the brown-haired man smiling comfortably at me. The other man didn't even look up from the lens of his microscope, however he mysteriously pauses to sniff a knife with a frown on his face.

I smile shyly at the man who's just given me a tiny wave, and look back to my chemicals.

Five minutes later, and my molecule still won't attach itself. Time to try a more complicated method of chemicals.

"Sherlock, you can't know absolutely everything about DNA, why don't you ask Molly?"

"Of course I can, John. My mind doesn't contain all those boring little facts like you have in your brain – who's dating who, why celebrities are famous, so why don't I know _this_?"

The man, Sherlock, stood up after his snide comment and held his hands behind his head, eyes closed in concentration with a frustrated huff.

"Molly, surely you know?" John asked, obviously tired of his friend's mood swing, and gestured to the girl who stood next to him, waiting patiently like a puppy for its owner.

I look up, for a second, from my work to practically see the cogs working in Molly's brain, a panicked and sorrowful expression appearing on her with wide eyes. I sympathize with her – I'm the shyest person ever, and if I find it difficult to be put on the spot, Molly will have a similar emotion – and look down at my experiment.

"I- I- I don't-" she stutters.

"She doesn't know, of course not, John, because this is Molly Hooper – a girl with a degree but in the absolutely useless field of dead people," Sherlock mocks.

I don't want to look up, but I know that Molly is wincing right now. Ouch. But which guy is it that she likes...? Damn, it doesn't matter. Please don't ask me Molly. She knows that I would know the answer – and I do – but I don't like speaking to random people who wander in here. I'm so glad I'm not wearing a lab coat right now – they could just assume that I'm an intern, not hard due to my small build, and leave me be.

The tone in her voice changes to one that signifies that a lightbulb has just turned on in someone's brain. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

Please don't make me get verbally-mauled by Dr. Moody over there, Molly.

"Bethany will know, she got her PhD by studying DNA!"

Darn.

I look up timidly to find that this man called Sherlock's eyes are snapping open, locking their gaze with me as he sharply lifts up his head. How can he not get whiplash from doing that so fast? His slightly-widened eyes are ice cold, emotionless, concentrated only on me to help him with whatever work he's doing.

Stop thinking useless facts, woman!

"Do you know what chemical this is? And how to make it?"

I gulp, unnoticeably.

"Um, yes?"

The man named John sighs in relief, shoulders relaxing and smiled in joy, giving a laugh of heartfelt relief. Molly grins widely, showing teeth, and looks so happy to have helped these people that she could dance about it.

I'm now put on the spot though. Thanks, Molly. She knows how timid I am.

This man called Sherlock hasn't moved a muscle like the other two, but seems to be infuriated that he doesn't know what to do himself, and that I do. His eyes have gone sharper, narrower, and I feel uneasy.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

I blink, uneasy of his accusing tone and choose my words carefully.

"Um... you were, rambling."

John smiles softly at me, and Molly attempts to tidy up Sherlock's workplace.

But Sherlock never takes his eyes off me. He can sense my timidness, I know it.

He seems to perk up slightly, giving me a slight half-smile with cold eyes, and nods before demanding I assist him. I'm away to protest, although shyly, when I'm interrupted.

"I'll take over your work," Molly offers, smiling at me as if we're friends. She's obviously ecstatic to have helped this guy, though I can see in her eyes that she's a little put out that she couldn't have offered her services but instead volunteered mine.

I don't know what to say. I know Molly can take care of my experiment, but I'm so shy around people that I might say something completely strange to this guy, or make a fool of myself, and ruin Molly's chances of him returning. She seems to know him though... so maybe she's progressed in getting his attention?

That, or he's just using her to get a free-lab pass. I know the way peoples minds work when it comes to taking advantage of timid people.

However, that's happening to me right now. And I can't get out of it.

I end up having to spend my lab-time working with this man, Sherlock, watching me like a hawk as I sort out his problem. Obviously, he doesn't like being dependant on someone.

His problem is a complicated one – even if he is an arrogant genius, he would never know the procedure to this without studying DNA in depth. The procedure is complex, but I manage to crack it – a bundle of different DNA's have mixed together, forming a mass of complicated strings, and I manage to reverse the process to leave at least five different samples of DNA un-shuffled and back to their original state.

As soon as I'm done with the Petri dish, he whips it up with a pale, long-fingered hand, and says "Fantastic, we can now find our killer, John!", and hurriedly puts on his coat and scarf to leave the room. He's gone before I can blink.

"Sorry, I'm going to have to go after him, make sure he doesn't do anything too disastrous. But thank you for all your help... erm, Bethany, wasn't it?" John says, gesturing apologetically.

I smile timidly, and nod.

"Thank you, and sorry again, for him," John smiles in his apology before whisking himself out the door after the other man.

I look at Molly, still in a little bit of shock.

"Who were they?"

"That was John Watson and... and, Sherlock Holmes," she replies with a dreamy expression.


	2. A Business Call

Over the next week, I learn from Molly that he was Sherlock Holmes – consulting detective with evident sociopathic tendencies. John Watson, the other man who was here with him, is his ex-army-Doctor flatmate. How he puts up with that arrogant man is beyond me.

But yes, Molly says that he comes in every now and again to run his own experiments, instead of waiting for the police to give him results.

Obviously, which I pointed out with a giggle, Molly has a crush on him. A massive one. Like, she would jump off a cliff if he told her to. _That_ much of a crush.

Today, I've just finished work and I'm walking to my sister's house, I'm earlier than we agreed. I wish I hadn't bothered saying I'd go to hers tonight – why am I giving up a cup of tea and back-to-back episodes of Big Bang Theory to be criticized by my elder sister? We've never gotten on, I'll admit that. She was the golden child, and I was the quiet and shy, not to mention small, little sister who wanted to become a scientist. My parents were much more proud of her than I could ever hope them to be of me. I don't resent her for that – I'm not one of those people who blame their current misfortunes on lack of attention from their parents – but I'm still the shy young girl I used to be.

Anyway, I'm just making sure all the buttons on my coat are done up. I'm about to take it off in two minutes, but my sister's really picky on my clothes.

A slight frown appears on my face while I stare at my flat pumps while walking. I'm scared as to what she'll say over my appearance – hair, the small amount of make-up I wear, my clothes, my _doormat?_: the woman will pick on anything.

Nevertheless, she's my sister and I'm hoping that she says all those things because she cares for me, not because she's a total bitch. Which, let's face it, she kind of is.

For some reason, that man Sherlock Holmes pops into my mind. Out of nowhere, I begin wondering whether he would put up with that kind of criticism. Would he sit back and just nod along, or would he defy them? Maybe it's because of my first impression of him as being arrogant and bluntly honest that's made me spontaneously think of him.

-**BANG-**

My tiny nose and forehead hit something hard, and I've realized that I've just knocked into someone. And not a nice someone, evidently. When I look up with wide-eyes, rubbing my forehead slightly, I meet big brown eyes narrowed in hostility and annoyance. Instantly, I step back, timidly shrinking back into myself.

But the eyes change. Why do the eyes change? But they go from being plainly angry and murderous, to shock, to a confused yet happy expression. It's as if he's had some sort of confused revelation shown to him – my face. I don't understand. Then again, I don't understand much when it comes to men. But surely this change in emotion isn't normal, right?

My eyes widen even further, but I give him a shy half-smile when his eyes twinkle and he smiles at me. I don't meet his eyes for very long, I'm not very good with looking strangers in the eye. He has dark brown hair, is in a suit, and is actually kind of... attractive. He's rocking the puppy-look.

"Hello, sorry about that," he says with a smirk, eyes trained on me.

He has a bit of an Irish accent, but also American in there too. It's a deep voice, but maybe the Irish accent makes it seem more chirpier than most mens.

"I wasn't looking where I was going, sorry," I smile and wrinkle my nose apologetically.

"Nonsense, it was entirely my fault. I have a beautiful-woman radar and should have detected you," he flirts, with a small wink and a quirk in his eyebrow.

I can tell I start blushing furiously. I hate my paleness, but hopefully it just looks like I have blusher on. I highly doubt it, as from the corner of my eyes as I smile embarrassedly at the floor, his smile gets wider.

"Bethany."

My sister's call surprises me, and my head tilts back up with a bit of a rapid movement. I notice that this man has just exited her apartment. I sigh internally. Another one of her men, no doubt?

But then I notice that the man has paperwork in his hand, something entitled "Adler" - possibly he's just a business associate?

My sister stands at the top of the steps on her doorstep. Her arms are crossed and she's wearing a stern expression on her face. A contrast to me with brunette hair, at the age of thirty-two she looks rather like thirty-seven. Her make-up is perfect, as usual, but they can't hide her signs of ageing – faint wrinkles are seen through the make-up. She doesn't have any under her eyelids... she hardly ever smiles, you see, or laughs.

Like she always has done, my sister intimidates me, as if she's a stern mother – though she is in no sense motherly towards me, she remains as stern as the most harshest mother in the world.

I gulp slightly, and turn my head back up to this man again, smiling apologetically again before moving round him to climb the short steps to my sister. At my sister's shout, he had turned, surprised to find that I'm here on this street for her, not just a random passer-by.

"Bethany... beautiful name," he smiles up at me. His face is comforting – I see slight wrinkles around his eyes as he smiles.

I blush again, smile at him slightly, and continue up to my sister. She isn't happy, though her expression remains blank and stern. What's going through her head? I'm instantly worried that I've upset her somehow.

When she closes the door behind me, the man still stands, watching me with the remains of his last smile. When Anne turns back around to me, she frowns and says; "I thought I told you not to arrive early? I have meetings, you know, I can't have my younger sister horrifying my clients."

I'd like to point out that that particular client didn't seem horrified, but was flattering. However, I would get a tormenting lecture about disrespecting her and talking back, that I didn't bother.

Now I've found out why she's so annoyed by my meeting him – I embarrass her. No leading lawyer, with degrees in both Management and Law, would want their younger sister around in case they embarrassed them.

But what files did she give him? Clients don't normally come to her house – they all go to her office. And they never leave with paperwork, my sister is a big fan of faxing – saves ink, money, and in case her client loses it. I know she deals with some private case, giving secret and confidential information to those who paid for her services, but that's about it.

I've only sat down, after Anne scolds me for my choice of coat, when I realize that the man knows my full name – Bethany Hopkins, my surname due to my sister's business-card – but I don't know his.

I've never not known someone's name when they know mine. But this man intrigues me, and I don't know why. The puppy-eyed look? Possibly. And the flattery, which I lack much of due to my timid nature.


	3. Hopkins and Brook

**Just to clarify, no, the sister is not Irene as her name is Anne Hopkins, which I thought was clear in the last chapter! Don't know how you came to that conclusion, haha. :)**

**Another little chapter, my Sherlockians! Have fun and good luck for those of you doing exams!**

After a horrific afternoon-tea with Anne – she's big on being posh – I decide to go to a little pub down the road to recuperate. I've been in there before, and smells entirely British – a mix of beer and food.

I'm always relieved when I leave my sister's house, kind of like that after-exam feeling. It shouldn't be like that, should it? Sisters should be laughing and smiling with each other, but instead, maintaining contact between us is almost viewed as politeness and a great deal of necessity on her part. She feels that since she doesn't like me, she should keep watching over me in case I... well, I don't know why, to be honest. It's not like I'm going to leak information about her to complete strangers, is it?

Anyway, my walk is kind of chirpy when I'm on my way to the pub. I love how I'm free from her clutches, even if only down the street.

When I get inside, it's beautifully warm. A classic English pub, it's wallpaper is a deep burgundy with polished tables, men watching to football. In fact, it's packed with men watching football, but they're all standing. No football enthusiast ever sits down while their team plays, apparently.

I get a cup of tea, not like that awful green tea my sister makes us drink, and move over to a seat to relax. I spy a cushioned ledge, next to the window panes, and curl myself up in it by reading my book balanced on my tucked-up knees.

Ooft, it's nice and cosy over here. I'm tucked away from the football-fanatics – perfect.

I'm about three pages into my book when I feel a presence standing next to me, and a shadow flows over the beige pages of my worn-out book. I look up, wary that it might be my sister, and instead see the man from earlier.

"Ah, Miss Bethany Hopkins, nice to see you again," he smirks.

Instantly, I sit up and place myself in a normal sitting-position, not taking up all the ledge. I timidly smile back at the surprising company. Has he been in here since leaving my sister's? No, he couldn't have been, I would have seen him when I was at the bar.

"Hello again... sorry, I don't know your name?" If there's one thing my mother taught me, and she didn't spend enough time with me to teach me much, it would be manners.

"Richard Brook," he said, after a slight hesitation. He smiled again and asked if he could join me. I was actually having a pretty good time by myself, but I didn't want to appear rude, so I say of course he can.

I don't quite know how I manage to hold down a good conversation – like Holmes, I'm a bit of a social-freak too. Not that I'm rude like he is, but it takes me a long time to warm up to a person in a conversation. Somehow, I manage to actually enjoy the conversation, and it drifted from topic to topic with his opinions coming in: the book I'm reading (he's always wanted to read Jack London, but has never gotten round to it), how football is a catalyst to male-bonding (he hates the sport, too much noise), and finally, my sister.

"How did you know we were sisters?" I ask, confused. We've been talking for a while now, so I'm comfortable enough to ask questions.

"You have a resemblance. She's obviously rather stern and pompous, but you both have the same eyes – though yours are different, they twinkle and are a different colour," he winks, adding on the difference between us when my face looks slightly stricken when he says we share a resemblance. I do_ not_ want to look like her, but if we just have the same eye shape I guess I can live with it.

But at his compliment, I flush. He laughs at the reddening of my cheeks.

His phone, or I presume it's his phone, bleeps. Annoyed, he apologizes and whips it out of his pocket. A BlackBerry. Businessman? I think so.

After exchanging a few clipped words with the person on the other line, he turns back to me and the corners of his mouth turn up.

"Sorry, duty calls. It's been nice speaking to you, Bethany, I'll be in touch," Richard winks one last time, and for one second I think he's contemplating kissing my cheek, but then he's gone.

My mind is left in kind of a whirlwind. One, I'm extremely glad he didn't kiss me as I would have probably turned into a beetroot as I barely know him. I'm fine with someone kissing my cheek in a greeting or farewell, but only if I actually know them and feel comfortable with them. Secondly... he said he'd keep in touch, but I never gave him any of my contact details.

But would I have given him it if he asked?

My experiences with men have been short – usually they see some leggy brunette who wears more make-up than me and they go after her – and I'm usually referred to as the "hot, cute girl they gave up". I don't understand that bit. If I was hot, then why did they leave me? Bigger boobs must be the answer. I'm proportional everywhere with curves in all the right places, but maybe it's because of my small figure that whenever they see a girl with tits the size of watermelons, they go running.

I _can't _believe that just happened. I just can't. To me, of all people.

One thing I know for sure though: my sister will kill me for actually talking to one of her business associates.


	4. A Strange Interaction

**Please review guys, I'm working hard here! Enjoy! Xx**

Why hasn't someone made speech-writers operate _everywhere_ – you speak, it writes.

Paperwork is a horrifying experience. As a lab assistant, you wouldn't expect much paperwork, but when we do get some it's really hardcore stuff. It takes hours to complete.

Molly took care of it last time, and now it's my turn. Damn. After she offered me up as bait to Sherlock Holmes, I'd thought she might have taken pity on me and not make me go through another terrible experience. But, no.

I'm concentrating on getting all this work typed up and sent away to the Head Office as our weekly lab report. Not a very happy moment, I assure you. That's probably why I'm typing away with a slight frown on my face, my hair falling onto the keyboard, and the mini-flowered tank top I have on isn't covered with stains, as my clothes usually would be despite the use of a lab coat. No lab coat today for me, just horrid typing.

You can imagine the look on my face – a startled rabbit – when Sherlock Holmes waltzes in, the door banging loudly against the wall as he throws it open.

"Ah, Bethany," he exclaims, smiling at me.

Oh dear Lord. He smiles? Like a regular human? I never knew that. Oh my_ God_.

John Watson comes in behind him, leaving his jacket on while Sherlock places his black scarf and trench coat on a hanger. John seems to find Sherlock's behaviour strange too, as he's staring at him with a similar expression as to the one on my face.

"Sh- Sherlock," I stutter back in greeting. I would have said Mr. Holmes, but I'm not calling him Mr. if he addresses me as Bethany. He's not my superior.

John's watching Sherlock suspiciously as the tall man arranges some chemicals on Molly's workstation. Good, I'm not the only one finding his behaviour strange then. I may have only met him once, but I never saw him crack a smile or say 'thank you'. Is he bi-polar? That would explain a lot.

"Having a good day?"

This just gets weirder.

"Erm, not really... you?" I ask out of politeness – I couldn't care less what he did with his day.

"This and that. Where's Molly?" Sherlock looks up, smirking at me again, and looks for her. Is he acting or something, playing with me?

"She's having lunch, she'll be back up in a minute. You had to pass the canteen to get here, did you not see her, I -" I'm cut off by him. Too shy to tell him off, I let it slide.

"I'm extremely confused as to how I can set up this experiment. Would you mind helping me? I don't know what lead goes where," Sherlock holds up a floppy lead and raises an eyebrow at me.

John looks like he's about to faint. I'm not far behind.

Without saying anything, I feel too shocked to, I set up his experiment. I already know what he's trying to do as the leads he's taken out are specific to just one experiment. When I'm finished, he says thank you and darts a smile at me. What... is going on? Am I on Punk'd? No, that show doesn't air here.

I return to my work, and watch confusedly as Sherlock potters about. I can tell my cheeks are probably tinged pink due to his change in personality. I'm not used to men being gentlemen. _Especially_, this man. He's a total arse, normally, so why is he being pleasant?

John comes over to speak to me. For some reason, I'm not quite so awkward with him. Maybe, after living with Sherlock, he's had to make people feel comfortable as his roommate definitely did not.

"Is your sister well?"

My eyes snap to him. He's looking at me questioningly.

"She's – she's okay. How do you know about her?" I'm instantly afraid. Stalker? It wouldn't surprise me.

"It's obvious that the lawyer Anne Hopkins is your sister. Molly mentioned that you have a tough sister, professional and successful. And you share the same name, so it's a predictable conclusion," he waves me off.

"Oh."

My mind completely misses out the fact that Molly spoke to Sherlock about me.

Instead, I'm overcome by adrenaline. I'm not normally so brave to ask the question I have in my head, but then again, this man isn't normal, is he? So he couldn't judge any abnormal behaviour as a side effect of my shy personality. He couldn't criticize me because people criticize _him_ for _his_ behaviour.

"What else do you know about me? Just from looking at me?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rise, and he asks; "From looking at you?"

"Yes."

He takes a moment. His eyes critically sweep over me, narrowing. Hands clasped together like Mr Burns from The Simpsons, he comes to a conclusion with a sparkle in his eye. Before I can speak, he's off on his answer.

"You're in your early twenties, from a rich family, but you make your own money and they keep as minimal contact with you as possible. You're their youngest child, your sister has always been the golden girl, and your mother never truly accepted you as her daughter. You're incredibly shy, yet feel that you'd be rude if you protested against someone."

He sits back, as if pleased with himself.

I blink.

John stands, looking between us both.

And then... well, it just slipped out.

I really didn't mean to say it. I would never have said anything like it to anyone before, but I blame the adrenaline in my body.

"Is that all?" I blurt.

Sherlock's eyes snap open wider, and I hear John's shocked intake of breathe. Oh dear Lord, why did I just say that? In my head, I'm SCREAMING at myself. Idiot, idiot, idiot! You don't offend people like that, nor burst their bubble no matter how ridiculous the bubble! I quickly try and backtrack, but the damage has been done.

"I mean, that's wonderful. Spot-on."

"What did you say?"

Oh, no.

"What?"

"Before that, you asked if that was all," his eyes narrow again. He doesn't like being questioned on his talent.

"No, I didn't," I squeak.

"Yes you did," Sherlock darts up from his chair, walks over to mine, and gets to my eye-level. His eyes are full of challenge – he evidently doesn't like being questioned but also has a need to get it right. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing it's fine," I feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Wide-eyed and a little nervous, ashamed, and scared.

"No, it's not, just tell me what you mean."

From looking into his ice-blue eyes, I can tell he'll never give up with this. Completely unlike me, I decide to tell him what I meant. I doubt he'll get mad at me, more likely at himself.

I shuffle nervously on my chair, not meeting his eyes, and turn back to my MacBook.

"Well.. I could tell you more about you than you can me."

A long-fingered pale hand takes hold of the back of my swivel-chair, and he effortlessly twists it back to face him. Damn, why are men so strong? And he's a little gangly!

"Tell me what you mean," he has a frown on his face now, but he's so keen to understand what I mean and how much I can tell about him. I can tell by his eyes that he's a bit manical about deducing, and he wants to see if he's wrong.

"I just... well, what you said about me is written all over me. Anyone can guess my personlity. But... well, I can tell that you have a landlady who insists your landlady and you shoot walls when you're bored," I glance at him nervously.

I can see him thinking it over.

"What?" John splutters. "How on Earth did you – how – I-"

"His suit smells like it was washed with cheap washing powder, and if she was a self-proclaimed landlady who is wealthy enough to live in Baker Street, then she would fork out for reasonably-posh soap. But she insists she's not your landlady, and so only uses the cheap stuff because each time she insists 'this is the last time', and won't waste the good soap on a one-off. You can tell he shoots the walls because he has dust particles under his fingernails which are tinged with a burgundy colour, your wallpaper colour, and there's noticeable burnt particles from the bullet," I quietly explain, turning back to my work in the hopes that they'll write me off again. I'm uneasy with this strange, arrogant man so near to me.

John stands in shock, while Sherlock leaves the subject and returns back to his work.

He chats with me throughout, which is extremely out-of-character, and somehow I manage to reply while my shyness eases off when I grow accustomed to our conversation.

But the question remains – what is Sherlock Holmes up to?


	5. High and Mighty

I'm in shock. I simply can't believe that just happened.  
I'm standing, with my mouth open and gaping like a small fish, by my landline phone.  
It's unbelievable. The most inconceivable, shocking, and alarming thing has just happened.  
My sister, Anna, has left a message on my voicemail asking for me to come round for lunch.  
I know the request, ordinarily, would be pretty simple - she's my sibling, and she lives a twenty-minute walk away from me.  
But this is MY sister. The one that invites me round every two months due to some sort of social protocol in her head. We keep minimal contact.  
And I only saw her last week. That visit with the mystery man, coming out of her house with a file of information he got from her, and our chance meeting at the bar, was still imprinted in my mind.  
She keeps minimal contact with me. So yes, I'm extremely alarmed.  
I'm half-expecting to go over there to find her tied-up and I was only invited to that we could be held hostage together for the criminals ransom payment from our father. But why would they want me? My father would never pay a ransom for me.  
While I'm walking over there, the thought crosses my mind that it might be something to do with this mysterious Richard. Did he ask my sister to invite me round so that he could see me again, which he hinted at when we were at the bar?  
I have no idea.  
Speaking of mysterious people - Sherlock Holmes is in my lab every day now. Instead of ignoring me, he smiles at me a lot and tries to make conversation with me. I don't have any experience with men, so I don't know what's going on in his mind, but I'm not good at talking.  
But for some reason, it's not too bad with him. We seem to both be socially awkward - but while he's brutal and as he puts it a "high-functioning sociopath", I'm just shy and small. I don't feel much pressure to make conversation, and so speaking back to him isn't as forced as with other people.  
I stare at the phone for another few seconds, then I'm walking to my room to get dressed. If I go to my sister's house with this tight charcoal tank-top and grey bottoms on her eyes would turn to ice. I put my hand into my blonde hair and sigh, closing my eyes with a small frown on my face while biting my bottom lip. I'm so confused. In all my years, my sister has never wanted to see me for anything other than necessity.  
Why now?  
But anyway, I have to go - I'll never hear the end of it if I don't.  
I decide on just putting on a simple spaghetti-strap sundress with a black cashmere cardigan - I find that dressing simply is best with Anna. She will pick on any detail of my clothes. Simplicity makes it harder for her to find faults!  
Fuck getting a taxi there, I want to walk there so that I can think. And, I went on John Watson's blog last night and read "The Study in Pink" - it disturbed me. Safe to say I'll be staying away from taxis for a while.  
John is quite nice, actually. How he puts up with Sherlock Holmes, I have no idea, but he seems a lot more... normal. He tells me stories of Sherlock - while his flatmate scowls over his petri-dishes at him - and how he shoots the walls whenever he's bored.  
Thinking about that is relaxing me as I take the long route to my sister's. By the time I reach her street, I wonder if it might be a good idea to speak to Molly about if there's a possibility she could date John - I get the impression that he's good boyfriend material, would be good for her instead of Sherlock insulting her all the time and her pining secretly for him, and also Molly would understand that John has to put his flatmate before a date. I found by talking with him that his dedication to Sherlock and the way his flatmate treats his girlfriends - telling them to shut up, and acting like a general sociopath - are the reasons why John's relationships are short-lived.  
Hmm. Interesting match-making of mine, but it's taking my mind off of what I'm about to endure.

* * *

I bite the inside of my bottom lip nervously as I push my finger on her doorbell.  
Oh Lord, what fresh hell am I about to endure?  
When the door opens, I expect to see her standing with a bored and uninterested look on her face - perhaps a fashionable dress and heels despite the fact that she's inside her own house. So imagine my surprise when I'm greeted with a male face, a black suit minus the tie, the top few buttons undone of his white shirt, and a smirk showing perfectly-white teeth.  
"We meet again."  
My mouth had dropped open slightly in surprise, and my naturally-pale face lightens with a deeper blush than usual as I get over my initial shock. I smile back at him, and yet at the back of my mind I'm wondering what on Earth he's doing here.

"Hi," I do an awkward little wave, but he just carries on smiling.

I spy movement behind his head, and look behind him to see my sister standing there. But she has a strange expression on her face. I've never seen it before, so I can't work it out. She's staring at myself and Richard, but there's an unreadable expression upon her face that I just don't get.

"Hello, Anna," I say, the corner of my mouth lifting up slightly in a shy way to get her to say something.

She blinks, and her gaze darts from my face to Richard's. He's turned around, and they share some kind of powerful glance which I can't see because his head is turned. Quick as a fox, my sister's eyes are back on me, and the expression on her face is even stranger. Why does she look so... blank? She's usually a snide woman - why is she different today?

Anna invites me in, dropping her eyes from me and turning to go back to the kitchen, her heels clicking on the marble surface of the entrance hall.

I don't know what to do with myself at all. I feel tiny compared to him, and he's a smaller man than Sherlock. Plus, this is my sister's home – should I be the guest here, or is he the guest?

"It was nice of your sister to invite me around today – she thought it would be nice to have some more company over," Richard Brooke grins like a Cheshire cat, and although his words are kind and have a soft Irish accent, I feel he's watching every move I make. I feel like I'm naked or something – it feels like he sees too much.

I thank God that my size three feet are clad in a simple pair of navy pumps instead of heels like my sister – that would draw so much more embarrassing attention to me. I don't quite know what to say, so I just smile shyly again.

"It's a nice day outside, she'll be having tea in the garden, won't she?" My sister isn't usually a comforting presence, but in Richard and I's last meeting I wasn't in her home and didn't have her acting strangely in the background. I'd feel better talking to Richard if she was there, plus I can analyse what's up with her.

"Yes, we were just in the garden, come join us," he smirks. It seems as if he wants to delay my seeing my sister and spend more time alone with me, and so he walks leisurely towards the patio. As I just smile shyly again and turn my head back to concentrate on where I'm going, I can feel his eyes on me. Knowing he's paying such attention to me gives me some sort of buzz in my blood.

But, things don't add up. They're lying to me: but what about?

Clue number one: my sister would never, _ever_, let one of her clients meet me out of fear that as the family sheep I would embarrass her. Clue number two: my sister would ordinarily take charge and order me around as soon as her eyes land on me when she answers the door. Something is definitely up. But, maybe it's some sort of crush she has on him. And who can blame her?

**I won't tell you why exactly Anna is acting strange, but I think you can guess. After all, Moriarty can be a threatening man. that was your hint. ;) **

**Thanks for the reviews, keep them coming!**

**Xx**


	6. Conservatory Coffee

**To that reviewer who rudely said the plot was boring... it's a few chapters in, don't know what planet YOU'RE on. PS: Only a coward posts such a rude review and doesn't leave a signed review. Get a life. Whatever writing I produce has NOTHING to do with you, and if you think I'm going to stop writing just because you posted a rude comment - get over yourself. The passion is in my blood - some idiotic reviewer isn't going to change that. #seeya**

Anyway, onto the next chapter! Enjoy! Xx

My god, he looks so much more casual than the last time I saw him! He looks so... normal, and unprofessional. Richard's wearing a cool blue collared shirt - the button undone at the top and one left undone at the bottom - with black, tailored trousers, leather belt, and expensive black shoes. I'm ashamed to say that my eyes land on his backside as he leads me to the conservatory.  
"Your sister and I were just drinking some Irish coffee," Richard grins, showing pearly-white teeth, as I walk behind he and my sister into the posh, white conservatory. What he's said is clearly a lie - my sister has hated whiskey ever since our father bought an expensive bottle and she drank the whole thing the day after her dismal exam results. She'd sworn never to touch a drop of the amber fluid again.  
"Oh, that's nice," I smile in return, dropping my cardigan onto the back of a chair nervously. I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, but I'm too shy to even look up.  
Instead, I try to test the waters with my sister, who's walked round the conservatory table to wipe at a non-existent smudge on her priceless glass table. I look up at her, still smiling, and look her in the eyes. She turns up her nose and turns away, unsmiling.  
Nothing too strange about that, then.  
"How are you keeping, Bethany?", he smiles wide as he pulls my chair out for me. My god, the Irish accent in his voice is stronger and almost _sexier _than I remember.  
"I've been fine, thank you, how are you? How's work?" I reply politely, taking the seat. Instead of looking him in the eyes for too long, I just smile shyly, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear in a quick, nervous gesture.  
A gleam comes into his eyes.  
"Oh, it's same-old, same-old. The usual... annoyances," Richard says, his eyes taking on a far-away and slightly cold look. When I smile uncertainly at him, he returns back to Earth and gives a small laugh before sitting down next to me.  
Where on Earth has my sister gone? She knows how awkward I get in these situations! Something isn't adding up. If he's a client, she wouldn't want me to even _breathe_ near him for fear of embarrassing her. Anne should be in her now, glaring coolly at me and shooing me away. Instead, she's outside the conservatory looking around her magnificent garden with a distant stare, sitting on a bench.  
"Is she not joining us?" I frown a little, playing the fool. His eyes dart to where my sister is staring out at her garden, then back to me, simultaneously pouring a cup of Irish coffee for me. Damn, I don't drink coffee.  
"Oh, she mentioned she was tired and wanted to tend to the garden."  
Another lie - my sister employs a gardener. Why on Earth would she get her hands dirty when she's so wealthy?  
"Is that okay?"  
I must have blinked strangely or showed some kind of reaction. Probably my lips, they usually give me away. I must have pursed them slightly or something.  
"Yeah, of course... though I should point out that I don't drink coffee," I reply sheepishly.

He stops pouring, and looks to me with a strange expression.

"Oh, your sister should have told me that, what a shame..."

"She probably doesn't know...", I say shyly, watching as he lowers the coffee pot and picks up a pot of tea.

"Why wouldn't she know, you're her sister?" he grins at me again, plopping the pot back on the table and handing me a cup. I thank him. Oh lord, this is so mighty awkward.

"We're not..." I glance to where my sister sits, making sure she can't hear me as I lower my voice, "we're not exactly close," I confide in him.

Richard sits down in the posh Louis Ghost Chair beside me, and continues to faultlessly grin at me, raising his cup to his lips.

"I got that impression. Your sister is..." he drifts off while trying to find a word.

Cue verbal diarrhoea.

"A bitch?" I supply automatically, and then my mouth drops open in recoil to what I just blurted out. Oh lord, this is so embarrassing! Why, Bethany? _WHY?!_

Thank the Lord, he laughs. Oh, how I'm _so_ glad that he has some sense of humour that makes me feel _slightly_ less embarrassed.

He carries on laughing, and says "You may be right there", in-between his chuckles.

"That just slipped out, oh _God_, that was awful of me," I cover my flaming cheeks with my hands. I don't even want to look at him, I'm so embarrassed.

Then, suddenly, I feel his hands on me. He has rough skin, but not too rough. Richard's fingers close around my wrists lightly and gently pull my hands down from my face. The contact seems to have some sort of effect on him – his fingers linger ever so slightly on the inside of my wrist.

"Don't worry, I've said worse about my family. I promise not to tell your sister," the Irish voice is still laughing.

My hands now lowered, I look up at him and give him a sheepish and embarrassed little glance, willing my inflamed cheeks to go away.

* * *

The situation was just strange, to say the least. Walking home now, I can't stop thinking of the tense atmosphere I had just left. I'm walking home with my eyes staring down at the ground, deep in thought, with my feet habitually going in the path home through London.  
Mostly, it was just weird. After my little slip-up and calling my sister a bitch, I was able to loosen up a little bit and not be so shy around Richard. Anne eventually came back into the conservatory after tea, and sat silently in the room tending to business on her phone. I smiled a lot, shyly glancing at my sister more than a few times to see how she was. But she avoided my eyes. She avoided Richard's eyes also, and sat next to him, looking as small as I've ever seen her, and stared out at the garden. Occasionally, whenever Richard hinted at perhaps seeing me again - which I inwardly squealed at, because I'm girly like that - she would glance over at him and he would stare back, and a look would pass between them. That expression from earlier would come on her face again, and then she would turn back to the garden and her BlackBerry.  
The time with Richard was nice - even though my domineering sister was there and I still don't know why I was brought there by her - but Richard is nice. Maybe a little too good to be true, actually. I've met him three times in total, and yet he seems to know me better than my sister (and she doesn't know me well at all). He'd see random details on me, on my clothes and hair especially. It's strange, but he reminds me of Sherlock Holmes.  
My nose suddenly slams into something that's soft, slightly woolly, yet hard underneath. In shock by the sudden impact, I put my hand to my nose and look up apologetically.  
From one enigmatic man to another - Mr Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of me, having turned around, oblivious to the fact that my nose just took a hit, and smirked at me.  
"Ah, Miss Hopkins. I trust you had a pleasant time at your sister's?"  
"I... how did you know I was at my sister's?" I put my hand down from my face in surprise.  
"I know she lives on Oxford Street, which is the direction from which you came, also you have the same expression on your face as I do whenever I spend any length of time with my own sibling," he explains, simply.  
"Interactions with my sister are never pleasant, but this one was something else indeed..." I sigh quietly, then look up and notice where we are: Baker Street. Damn, I'd forgotten that John mentioned that they share a flat together on Baker Street. It never occurred to me before now that to get to my sister's and back, I had to pass through this street.  
My mind then turns to what on Earth he's doing randomly stood outside his flat, then it clicks in my mind when an exasperated John flings open the front door of number 221. He's only wearing boxer shorts, plain white T-shirt, and a befuddled yet sleepy expression accompanied with tousled hair.  
I blink at him, though finding his appearance rather funny - it must be the polar-bear-patterned boxers. Oh, John.  
When he notices that Sherlock isn't alone, he tries to subtly use the door to shield the lower-half of his body. It's so hard not to giggle, right now!  
"How many times have I told you to remember your keys, Sherlock? I don't like showing the world my pyjamas," he exclaims.  
"22 precisely, what a ridiculous question to ask as you open the door," Sherlock raises a condescending eyebrow at his roommate, obviously not noticing that the question was rhetorical. He really _is _a sociopath, isn't he?  
John gives an angry sigh in response, gives a tiny smile in apology to me, then darts back upstairs, being careful to still use the door as a shield. This must be one of the many drawbacks of living with Sherlock Holmes: the constant spontaneity  
Speaking of the devil, he gestures coolly to inside the flat with a long, white hand.  
"Oh, I can't," I protest - although I could spare the time, I didn't want to have any more awkward interactions today.  
"Nonsense", Mr Holmes exclaims, and then ignores me to dart up the stairs. I blink, stunned. I then nervously sigh, step in awkwardly, unsure of my surroundings, and shut the door behind me.

**More coming very soon, I'm on a roll!**

**Xx**


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